


wait in the pouring sun

by smartlike



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Jossverse - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartlike/pseuds/smartlike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I would ask if that's your real name, but I don't really have room to talk." Gunn glances around the street. "Amazing how no one ever seems to be around to witness this shit." He stares off into space for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Looks like your friend's gone and I'm done for the night. You wanna grab a drink?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	wait in the pouring sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Oz-slash Ficathon run by katemonkey and delores with the prompts: "T-shirts and sleep" and no "werewolf sex."
> 
> Betas by k and apaintedmaypole.
> 
> Originally posted at http://www.obsessivetendencies.net/am/

L.A. again. He leaves and he wanders and he always ends up back in L.A. Oz thinks maybe it's because it's as close to Sunnydale as he'll let himself get, but still a completely different place. He stayed with a friend of Devon's last time he was here. Five nights on an orange couch that was always damp in an apartment that smelled of moss and Budweiser. There's no one at that phone number anymore, so Oz isn't sure where he's staying. He spent last night in the van out in the desert and he's not worried about safety, but it's tricky to park and sleep in the city. The cops are always on the look-out for suspicious people. It's not great for his back, anyway, so, he turns into the lot of the first motel he sees along the way, grabs a room and drops his stuff on the neatly made bed. It's small, but clean and there's only a faint whiff of whoever stayed there last night.

Oz nods at the empty space, looks behind him at the open door and mutters, "Great." Then he turns and leaves, locking the door behind him and shoving the key in his pocket.

He gets back in the van and drives, down the freeway towards all the light and sparkle up ahead. As he gets closer, the sky seems to disappear, to change into one kaleidoscope of color. Even when Oz is stopped in traffic and cranes his neck out the window, he can't see the sliver of moon up above. His lip twitches in something like a smile and he moves with the jerk and hitch of the cars around him until he's exiting and pulling up outside a bar. He's been here before, not last time he was in town, but the time before that. He was playing in a band, touring with some singer-songwriter type who brought Oz with him to a few places that you couldn't find on citysearch.

Oz parks the van and doesn't bother to lock the door before heading into the tiny bar. Anyone who wants to go to the trouble of stealing his rattling van probably deserves it more than Oz. Inside it's grey and dim and poorly lit and there aren't enough synonyms for 'dark' to convey what it actually looks like, so Oz stops listing them and takes a seat at the bar.

"Beer," he says and doesn't bother to look up at the bartender, just takes the drink that's handed to him and sets a five on the bar.

The place smells of smoke, sulfur and alcohol and Oz feels comfortable here in a way he always thinks he shouldn't. He figures he keeps finding places like this and coming back because he hopes that eventually he won't recognize those murky smells anymore. He can see shadows wandering the room, sometimes stopping in the pockets of light that illuminate the pool tables. There's a couple pressed against one, kissing and laughing and as dark as the bar is, everyone inside seems in a relatively good mood.

Oz rolls his eyes at himself and his drama and cocks his head until he recognizes the music coming from the juke box as De La Soul, "Me Myself and I". Appropriate, he thinks, bobs his head a little and goes back to his drink. The music segues into David Bowie and Oz smiles when he realizes the guy a few stools down is singing along.

"Just for one day." He's slightly off key, but the notes cut through the thick air and Oz smiles. The guy is looking at him and smiles back, shrugging a little, but he doesn't stop singing. Oz listens until the song is over and the guy is tipping his beer bottle back into his mouth. He nearly blends in with the space around them, but his eyes flash in the light that comes from above the bar.

"Not bad," Oz says, a little louder than he has to. Louder than he usually would.

The man nods, laughing. "Thanks." He looks like he might say something else when his cell phone rings, sharp and loud. He shakes his head and answers, "Gunn. What?"

Oz squints and inhales, finds something spicy and heavy under the bar smell, like spiced wine or the incense he remembers filling rooms at home.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." The man-- Gunn, Oz assumes-- stands up, shoving his phone back in the pocket of his vest. He reaches out, grabs the bottle and drains the last of the beer before tossing some money down and heading towards the door. He pauses at the juke box and turns back to Oz. "Night."

Oz nods and watches him leave before turning back to his beer. He doesn't recognize the next song.

**

"So then I told the guy that he was full of shit. No way was beer being taken out of the fee, you know?"

Oz chuckles and rolls his eyes at the kid walking beside him, Mike, a guy he worked with packing boxes in some factory up North. Another in a long line of people he hooked up with who were as much not-Willow as possible. Oz is over that phase though, and Mike's living in L.A. now, thinks he maybe wants to be a rock star. Oz ditched the motel and stayed at Mike's place last night, for old time's sake or something. Oz never would have expected to run into him, but isn't sorry he did. Tonight, they saw a show, some jazz-fusion thing and it wasn't very good. Mike knows a party not too far from the club though, so they're heading there and Oz is listening to another rock and roll story and watching his shoes slap against the pavement.

"--'cause the guy has some sort of problem with us, clearly, so we just shove past him and okay, so maybe Alex accidentally brushes him with his cigarette. And it was all fuc--"

Mike stops mid-sentence, so Oz lifts his head to look at him. He's stopped moving as well, staring straight ahead, the color drained from his face. Oz doesn't want to look, but he inhales and turns his head. There's a vampire, of course. There's always a vampire in this story, two kids, slightly drunk, walking alone late at night and there's always a vampire or a demon or a werewolf. Sometimes even vampires fighting werewolves. Oz lets out a huff of breath and he thinks he has a stake back in the van, not that that'll do them any good now.

It feels like time has stopped, but it hasn't and the blonde in front of them with the fucked-up face is advancing on Mike, so Oz turns and shoves him out of the way. "Run, man. Get out of here." 

Mike blinks three times, quick and then shakes his head. "But, you--"

"Run."

The vampire laughs and Oz glares at Mike. He blinks one more time and Oz wants to smack his eyes closed permanently. He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and the word "go" and finally Mike turns and takes off down the street.

"Oh, he didn't want to play?" The vamp's voice is a sweet whine and Oz can smell bubblegum mixed with blood on her breath as he turns to face her again.

He looks up at the sky and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and tensing all his muscles.

"But you want to play, right? Because it's just you and me, now, hon--"

Oz is focusing, eyes still closed, and then through it all he smells spice, something vaguely familiar. When his eyes snap open the guy who was singing at the bar the other night is standing behind the vampire, strange looking axe raised and a thick grin on his face.

"Hey, you forgot me," he says and the vampire's only turned halfway to face him before he's swung and sent her head flying. "I wanna play, too."

Oz coughs at the dust and blinks, feeling stupid, his body quivering, his bones wanting to stretch and his senses waiting, so he has to focus now on making things not happen.

When Oz opens his eyes again, the guy-- Gunn, Oz remembers-- is frowning at his axe and Oz watches him wipe it on his jeans. It leaves a smear of ash behind and he frowns before turning to Oz, eyes guarded, but curious. "I know you?"

"The bar. You were singing. 'Heroes'." Oz raises an eyebrow.

"Right, right." Gunn laughs, eyes opening a little more and Oz's field of vision is full of white white teeth. "Guess that kinda fits."

Oz tips his head in agreement. "Yeah, thanks."

"Not a problem." Gunn's laugh fades. "Not that you really seemed too scared." Oz shrugs. "You've seen 'em before?"

"Some." Oz hasn't seen a vampire in a while, but it's not something you forget. And there are other demons.

Gunn watches Oz for a second that seems longer and he can feel the tendons in his arms start to twitch a little. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and Gunn smiles again, offering the hand not holding the axe. "Gunn," he says.

Oz shakes his hand, nodding. "I heard. You were on the phone the other night." Gunn nods, shrugs. "Oz."

"I would ask if that's your real name, but I don't really have room to talk." Gunn glances around the street. "Amazing how no one ever seems to be around to witness this shit." He stares off into space for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Looks like your friend's gone and I'm done for the night. You wanna grab a drink?"

Oz looks in the direction Mike ran and nods. "Yeah."

**

The bar Gunn takes him to isn't somewhere Oz has been before, but he's pretty sure you couldn't find it in the directory, either. Waiting for his drink, he turns and glances around, seeing all types of demons and some men in suits. Gunn is leaning next to him at the bar, talking to a tall, green, horned demon apparently named Lorne. He's wearing a suit in a shade of purple that Oz dyed his hair once, but that he's never seen anyone actually wear. At the back of the room, there's a stage where a thin girl is torturing some Britney Spears tune, brown hair hanging over her glasses, a sad frown hovering over her lips whenever there's a break in the lyrics.

Gunn looks at Oz and then follows his eyes to the stage. He laughs, deep and rich and says to Lorne, "Man, I hope you're reading her, 'cause that girl needs some help."

Lorne rolls his eyes. "She doesn't need anything except some singing lessons. She thinks she has problems, but don't we all?" There's a soft clink of ice against glass. "And is that why you're here?"

Oz turns on his stool, remembering Gunn singing before. Maybe he's a karaoke champion-slash-vampire hunter. Buffy sang karaoke once, at the Bronze. "Ironic". She was terrible, but Oz remembers that the whole night was pretty fun. 

But Gunn shakes his head, "Nah, nothing like that. Just getting a drink, blowin' off steam. Had a run-in with a vamp earlier." He cuts his eyes at Oz and they seem to brighten before looking away again. Oz reaches for his drink and pulls a few slow sips into his mouth, watching Gunn talk. "It's been slow with the big man off brooding in Tibet or wherever."

"Well, you and your friend get whatever you want. On the house, doll." The demon smiles at Oz as he moves past him, a swoosh of fabric and an overdose of cologne.

Oz angles his body towards Gunn a little more as he takes a seat. "Tibet's nice this time of year," he says.

Gunn lifts his eyebrows. "Yeah?" Oz nods. "Never been. I like to stay local."

Oz shrugs and fingers the beads around his wrist. It's probably raining in Tibet this time of year, but the idea of rain never seems to mean much in Southern California. He finishes his drink, more water than whiskey at this point, and waits.

Gunn doesn't say anything, though, just glances around the bar and Oz can tell that he's identified every possible threat in the room and all means of escape. Oz can tell because he knows them too. Gunn takes a long swallow.

"So." Oz tips his head back a little to indicate the stage. "Karaoke?"

"I know, it's awful. I mean, is anyone good at that shit?" Gunn laughs again and it sounds like water running over rocks. He stares at Oz for a second and then nods a little, more to himself than Oz. They sit in silence until the girl is done singing and Gunn claps politely.

Gunn finishes his beer and waves at the bartender in a gesture that includes Oz's empty glass. "So you've been to Tibet, vamps and demons don't scare you, you like whiskey, but not karaoke and you play the guitar. Anything else?"

Oz opens his palm and looks at the calloused on his fingers. "Observant. Should probably expect that from a guy named Gunn." Gunn laughs again and Oz rubs his thumb across his palm before resting his hand on the bar. "Not much else to know."

Gunn nods. "I doubt that."

Oz slides around on the stool, putting his right foot on the ground. The bartender sets the drinks down in front of them and neither of them reaches for them right away. Finally, Oz inhales sharply and turns away, taking a sip and letting it melt down his throat.

"Also, you don't talk much." Gunn nods, considering. "That's cool. I get plenty of that." He rolls his eyes and looks over at Oz who widens his eyes just a bit to show that he's listening.

Gunn tells a story about some friend of his and it's funny, but it doesn't matter, really. Mostly Oz is just listening to the sound of Gunn's voice and thinking of the few weeks he spent last winter in Montreal-- French words and bitter winds and traveling through underground tunnels. It wasn't somewhere Oz belonged at all, but he liked how everything about it was so different from anywhere he'd lived before. He feels like that now and he finishes his drink and laughs because Gunn is, not because Oz heard whatever they're laughing about.

"You live around here?" Gunn asks, setting his empty bottle on the bar.

Oz shakes his head. "Passing through."

"That friend of yours?"

"No. Just--" Oz turns the strand of beads around his wrist, twisting a little. "No one." When he looks up, Gunn is still watching him, his head tilted to the side. Oz can't even begin to guess what he's thinking.

"So are you staying nearby, then?" he asks.

Oz shrugs. "I'll just find a motel. Maybe stay in the van. I'm heading out again soon." Oz didn't know he was, but when he says it, it's true. He thinks maybe he'll try somewhere south this time. New Orleans, Nashville, Savannah-- some other famous city with new stories, different demons.

Gunn rolls his eyes. "A real live drifter. Probably the last person I should invite into my house." He raises his eyebrows and waits.

Oz thinks of a warm bed, the smell of spiced wine. He smiles. "Could be worse. Could be a vampire."

Gunn laughs and stands up. "'Night Lorne," he calls as he leads the way out of the bar. 

**

Oz spends two nights camped out in Gunn's bed. The first morning, he wakes up around three, wrapped in a sheet and an old Fishbone t-shirt that Gunn gave him last night when they realized Oz left his stuff in the van. He barely noticed when Gunn left earlier, figures he went to work. Oz thinks that when he gets down south he'll stay long enough to get a job. He misses having work to do, something to keep his hands and mind focused.

He gets his duffel out of the van, brings it in, and goes out again, still wearing Gunn's t-shirt even though it's too big and hot and stale with sleep. He wanders around, driving to tourist attractions, stopping once to buy a map to the stars' houses. He looks at a few names and addresses, but doesn't go anywhere. He feels odd just knowing that much. Back at Gunn's there's still no one home, so Oz grabs a book out of his bag and reads about youthful alienation until Gunn comes in, smiling and the room seems to warm up the minute he walks in. Oz smiles back and takes the Chinese food he offers, places it on the floor by the bed.

They eat, Gunn talking about his day-- some money demon guy or a guy with a demon and no money or some other combination of those words that makes more sense. But they don't eat much, because Gunn spills soy sauce the little plastic packet exploding when he rips it open. He swears and pulls off his shirt, now stained near the collar and on the sleeve. When he stands to get a towel or another shirt, Oz follows, stops Gunn with a hand on his arm and presses him to the bed. They slide over the green and white striped sheet, and Oz watches the thin green lines that seem to move when he bends his head, licking liquid salt warm from Gunn's skin. Gunn laughs and tips his neck back arching it against the pillow. Oz pulls his t-shirt off and drops it, black fabric fluttering to the ground, possibly landing in soy sauce.

"Is that still my shirt?" Gunn turns his head to look, but Oz doesn't answer, just slides his hands over Gunn's chest, his hands cold against skin that's smooth but ridged with scars. Gunn breathes out, loud enough that it's all Oz can hear even over the hissing AC and the street noises outside. "Yeah, you're right. It doesn't matter. I've got lots of shirts."

Oz chuckles then, not that it's particularly funny, but Gunn is twisting and flipping them and Oz wraps one hand around Gunn's hip and brings the other down to touch the beads on his wrist. He focuses on the sound of Gunn's voice in his ear, the smell of spices thicker and heavier and darker here in Gunn's bed. They fuck and the sheet underneath them slides off the mattress and bunches up under Oz's shoulders. Afterwards, Oz looks at the little white boxes sitting on the floor next to the abandoned t-shirt and smiles against Gunn's back. Oz isn't hungry, so he closes his eyes and lets his breath slow until it matches Gunn's and they're both falling into quiet and then sleep.

When he wakes, it's just barely dawn and Gunn has rolled away in the night. He's flat on his back, one hand resting on Oz's wrist, just above the beads and the other thrown over his eyes. Oz carefully pulls his hand away, stands up, stretching and finds his way to the bathroom. He's not entirely sure that Gunn actually lives here or at least, if he does, he just moved in. The only furniture is the bed and a table in the kitchen with only one chair. Oz opens the fridge and stares, but all he finds is water and a mostly empty jar of salsa. He goes back to the other room where he quietly eats some of the leftover Chinese, grinning at the taste of soy sauce on his lips.

When he's finished, he starts gathering up his things and stuffing them back in his bag. He folds up the Fishbone t-shirt, which didn't land in anything after all, and puts it on top of his own clothes. He doesn't think Gunn will mind.

He heads towards the door, stopping before he gets there and turning to look at Gunn. He thinks about the highway, lights spaced evenly and lines disappearing underneath the van as he moves. Gunn rolls onto his side. If his eyes were open he'd be looking right at Oz. Oz smiles, inhales deeply and slips out the door to the waiting van. He thinks about the south, oppressive heat and twangy accents. He doesn't wonder how long it'll be 'til he's back in L.A.


End file.
